Today Je suis Charlie
by Croc'Sushi
Summary: 'Today I am Charlie'. What had France change his name for a day? (To Lou Lou: I am French, and writting this was at the time a source of comfort for me, as I could express myself with all the hope and outrage I felt -and feeling again. If you don't like it, that is your problem)


**A/N: A short tribute to my country, France, and to all the nations who showed support regarding the terrorist attack in Paris on January 7th.**

* * *

It hurt. And like always he hadn't seen it coming… exactly like a bullet shot from nowhere aiming right to his heart. A sneaky, cowardly attack that had him cough like twelve people's worth of blood.

Dieu… when was the last time it felt this painful? Two decades or so, maybe.

One would think he'd got used to this pain, but every time this used to happen always felt like the first time: the godawful pain that makes him wish he could actually die, the immense sorrow, the blazing fury.

And yet…

And yet.

When he opened his eyes, the light almost blinded him. But it was soon thankfully shadowed by the many panicked faces all around him. However, nor could he make out who was who, nor could he hear any of their voices. The world was still a buzzy, confusing, quiet hell.

Then, too suddenly, this strange scene showing dark silhouettes dancing everywhere turned up from "mute" to the highest volume. Much. too. fast.

"Let's get him in the nearest hospital now !"

His head throbbed very painfully. That stern tone… and this muscular shaped person already making a call for an ambulance in a fast but very coherent speech… Ever the practical one, that Germany.

"All of you step back and let him take a bloody breathe, damn it !"

Oh, mon Angleterre… I knew you cared.

"Just let me check on him!"

America, always the hero after all. He felt someone (most likely dear Amérique) gently wipe the blood off his mouth, and carefully touching him all over as he was looking for other injuries.

Nearby, he'd swear he was hearing Italy's muffled cries and he then felt immediately sorry for letting him witness such a terrible sight. He hoped someone would take him away from here soon.

He could also hear murmurs of his own name, uttered sometimes with shock, worry or sadness.

"Hang in there, France !" Was it… Australia ?

"Courage, papa…!" Whispered the familiar yet trembling voice of Canada, making his already badly wounded heart bleed even more with angst, for his dearest Trésor des Neiges (Precious from the lands of Snow) would only call him like that on very special occasions nowadays.

Far off, loud sirens ring madly. The ambulance is finally coming, what a relief. If he had to hear one more heartfelt word, he might really collapse from an intense and emotional heartache. Too bad no one is ever gifted with telepathy skills.

Voices echo again and again, from nations all over the world calling his name and voicing their support. Austria, Spain, Japan, Morocco, Argentina… and so many more he couldn't all identify. And still, he was unable to properly see them when he felt so overwhelmed by the urge to see them all, to thank them… to say something, anything. But his body just wouldn't let him be.

He wanted it, he wanted it so much though. When was the last time he's heard any gentle word these days ? With all the economic issues and the constant nagging from everyone, he had been starting to think that he was maybe hated and alone…

And now, would you look at that? The whole world is here with him, being so supportive and kind. This hadn't happened ever since WW2 at least: when the news of his fall reached through the globe, people from all around sent money, jewelry, anything of value to help him get back on his feet and keep fighting with the Résistance.

Now, if only he could pay back their kindness while they were all still here and before he was sent to the hospital!

"Hey, look ! His eyes are focusing, he's moving !"

Yes. He was finally starting to regain his sight and move his fingers and numb limbs by a tiny inch.

But before he could try anything else, he saw people in white appear around him. The medics. Were they going to take him away before he had the chance to say anything?

"… ha… ah…"

" Wait ! He's trying to speak !" England yelled suddenly, trying to stop the doctors from taking him now.

"Don't try to speak, save your breathe sir. You need to save your energy right now…" The doctor ignored the Briton while addressing the wounded man before him.

Instead of just obeying (that was never his forte anyway), he shut his eyes tightly as if holding back in pain, and reopened them just as quickly. The faintest smile graced his pale figure, surprising both the doctor and England who were still very close by.

On his cheeks, one first salty pearl rolled… then a second one, a blood one.

With difficulty, and slowly, he raised his right fist, trembling with the effort.

"Today… Je suis Charlie."

END


End file.
